


Steps and Countersteps

by RemembrancerLirael



Series: Coming Together [1]
Category: Koozå - Cirque du Soleil
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Feeding an almost non-existent fanbase, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, circus shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemembrancerLirael/pseuds/RemembrancerLirael
Summary: Trickster is the master and creator of Koozå, but his creations have become Something More. What begins as an attempted seduction leads to a far more introspective journey. Can Trickster learn to love this chaotic vortex of a family as they are? Or will his need for control drain all creativity from his kingdom?
Relationships: Kashmir/The Trickster (Koozå)
Series: Coming Together [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870783
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

If Trickster had not created Kashmir himself, he would be tempted to think she existed solely to infuriate him.

The woman is utterly unreachable. If she loathed him, at least that would be attention of a kind, but this is far worse. It is as if his existence didn’t merit any sort of response from her whatsoever. He may as well have been part of the scenery. No, that is inaccurate. The bataclan, at least, she appears to appreciate. He is simply invisible, and to be invisible in a world inhabited solely by his own creation is a rather unsettling experience.

To be invisible, he realizes, is to cease to exist. He pushes the uneasy thought away and refuses to consider what such sentiments reveal.

After yet another futile attempt at catching her eye, Trickster finds himself sulking beneath the bataclan.

“I know you’re in there,” croons a mischievous voice from the shadows.

Trickster is on his feet in an instant. He smooths out his gold and crimson suit, puts on a facade of bored indifference, and emerges from the bataclan to find Kashmir on an empty stage.

“No trapeze today, then?” he questions.

“Oh, that trick has become stale, don’t you think?” she replies, hands on her hips.

He stalks towards her until they are inches apart. Slowly, he reaches out, tracing her face with his fingertips. Kashmir remains still as a statue. Only her eyes, glittering with amusement, betray any reaction at all.

“Do you require a distraction, then?” he whispers, leaning in to kiss her.

Kashmir turns her head at the last moment, and Trickster finds himself kissing the air as she pushes him away.

“Oh, no, not that,” she laughs as his smile fades for a fraction of an instant. “I do require your skills, however, Trickster. Could you conjure me a new trick?”

Her request surprises him. It is rare for one of his creations to grow weary of their routines. And selfishly, he realizes, he rather enjoys watching her soar above him.

“Do you still wish to fly?” he questions.

“What do you think?”

“I think I would be most upset if my little bird fell to earth.”

Kashmir snorts at his attempts at poetry and rolls her eyes. He chooses to ignore the movement and twirls his baton above their heads. A set of straps descend from the shadows. Trickster finds his heart racing, hoping he has pleased her, but angrily pushes the thought away. He is the ruler, she the subject. It shouldn’t matter if his actions please her, and yet, it does. Sensing the momentary vulnerability, Kashmir’s eyes soften as she thanks him for the gift. He returns her smile with a silent bow and departs.

Trickster watches from the bataclan as Kashmir begins to train in the new instrument. Even her tumbles and mistakes are elegant. It is impossible to tear his eyes away. He has craved her attention from the moment he brought her to life but, for once, he’s thankful she appears too absorbed in her work to take notice of him.

“You really believe I don’t know you’re there, Trickster?”

He gracelessly drops his baton in surprise. The crash echoes through the bataclan.

“Perhaps it is safer to watch you from a distance,” he calls back. “I still have the bruises from our last two encounters.”

“You bruise too easily,” she responds in amusement. “Come, before I change my mind.”

Trickster considers the options at his disposal. He could approach her with a disinterested facade, keep his distance, attempt another seduction. He could recommence this dance between them. What he wants most of all is to pull her into his arms and feel her weight as their lips meet.

None of these options seem likely to end without Trickster receiving yet another bruise to add to his growing collection. She is worth the risk.

Starved for her touch, he hurries to her side, tumbling and landing at her feet. Trickster’s hands slide up the curves of her legs. Kashmir smiles down at him, indulgently, beckoning him higher. Jumping at the invitation, he grasps her waist with his hands and twists. She soars above him.

Of all the Koozin, none take his breath away like this.

Too quickly, Kashmir returns to earth. Trickster is unable to resist drawing her close to him. She allows the game to continue, her leg wrapped around his waist. He smirks. Perhaps he can win this game after all. He grasps her wrists and leans in to kiss her again. She kicks free, flying back, and leaving his arms empty.

“Is it absolutely necessary to try to keep me trapped, even for an instant?” she calls out, just out of his reach.

“How else can I touch you?”

“You are the ruler of this world. If you wished, you could have me in an instant.”

“The King is our ruler,” Trickster retorts, his eyes twinkling with mirth. He is almost unable to say such a ludicrous idea with a straight face.

“That is only half an answer.”

“The other half of that implied question is too absurd to answer.”

Kashmir smiles at his frustration, landing gracefully at Trickster’s side. She takes the straps in her hands and returns them to her momentary partner. He closes the distance between them, his fingertips lingering for a moment on her wrists.

“Are you saying you would not use your powers to take what you want of me?” she asks, one eyebrow delicately raised. The tension between them stretches out, taut, waiting to snap.

“Never,” he promises, his lips briefly ghosting over hers before grazing her ear.

Kashmir freezes, a curious expression on her face, then shoves him away once again. The dance continues, a cycle of desire and frustration. Over and over, Kashmir returns to earth, and she reaches for Trickster. Despite knowing each attempt is hopeless, he continues to reach back, and she flies. It is a duet he should walk away from; he certainly can’t win this or keep her close. But it is better than not having her at all, and a dance of frustration is still a dance one can enjoy.

Ages pass as he watches her above. Finally, she returns to the ground, impulsively leaping from the straps and onto the surprised Trickster. He is intoxicated by the weight of her above him and chooses to remain motionless. In the tense silence between them, Kashmir presses her lips to his.

“Let go,” she whispers, her body melting against his.

Trickster’s eyes snap open. No. That is not an option. He flips her over, trapping her on the ground with his hips. The spell between them ends. Just as quickly, he finds himself pinned to the ground with a furious Kashmir in his lap.

“You insist you would not control me with your powers, yet you attempt to retake control of the situation with more primitive means,” she sighs, rising to leave him on the cold ground. “I am disappointed, Trickster.”

For a moment, Trickster considers forcing Kashmir to his side. It would be as effortless as a touch of his baton. The idea sickens him. He discovers himself unsure of how to proceed.

“Stay,” he pleads softly. Standing, he takes the straps in his hands once again, and offers them to the woman before him. He makes no other move. This next step must be hers.

She considers the offer. Her eyes search his. He wonders, desperately, what it is she seeks there “No, not yet,” she smiles. “Perhaps someday. Perhaps never. Regardless, not today.”

Kashmir squeezes his hand once before departing. His eyes burn coldly as she rushes back into the shadows. With a brush of the baton, he removes the straps from existence.

“She will have to ask for that gift should she wish it again.”

Trickster loses himself to fantasies, still reeling from the brief contact, dazzled by her exhilaration as she flew above him. After a moment’s consideration, he conjures the straps again. A whispered command ensures they will reveal themselves whenever Kashmir desires to fly.

“She may not wish to spend time with me,” Trickster admits to himself. “But a gift given with expectations is no gift at all. At least this will please her, even if I do not.”

Out of sight, Kashmir almost cheers as Trickster returns to the bataclan. It would seem he is beginning to grasp her desires after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote a lot of Trickster smut a decade ago. This was intended as a rewrite, but instead it Caught Feelings and this is the result.


	2. Chapter 2

Trickster’s hands clench at his sides as he watches Kashmir on the straps. He wastes far too much of his time anticipating her whims. If he is lucky, she occasionally grants him affection for a few blessed moments. They dance, she flies, and he is left with little more than a kiss for his efforts. If he is unlucky, which occurs more often than not, day by day, she treats him as if he does not exist. Today appears to be the latter.

He contemplates, briefly, how simple it would be to flick the baton and demand Kashmir remain with him. The thought disgusts him. With a grimace, he discards the idea as soon as it bubbles to the surface.

“I believe you might be useful to me, if you would only stay a moment?” Kashmir calls out from the air. Trickster instantly freezes and waits for her company.

“As always, I am here to serve,” he purrs, bowing with a flourish. She rolls her eyes in response.

“It’s the King.”

“No,” he deadpans over his shoulder as he attempts to escape the situation. Of all the things to ask him, this is what she chooses. He does not have the patience for this conversation.

Kashmir hurries after him, preventing his exit with a hand to his chest. “You did not hear my request.”

“I have no need to. I refuse to subject myself to his company more than is necessary, even for one as beautiful as yourself.”

“He has been rather, shall we say, affectionate with the triplets.”

Trickster’s entire body goes rigid. His hand moves to the baton, gripping it in a flickering rage, and he steadies his breath. Anger surges in his veins. He can feel the force of it crackle in the air, and it takes all his strength to hold down the impulse to lash out.

Amala, Indira, and Nandita are the youngest of the Koozin. They are ethereally beautiful, but they are also impossibly naive, and Trickster often finds himself chasing the clowns away from their practices with the force of his baton. Playing bodyguard to triplets was not how he expected that particular creative impulse to work out.

After a few choice words, the King had promised to remain at a distance, and Trickster had considered the matter settled. He is incensed to find the agreement broken and his authority challenged.

“I do not rule this world,” he reminds Kashmir, who appears incredulous at the suggestion. “But I shall make inquiries.”

Kashmir nods, momentarily satisfied, and vanishes into the shadows.

Once she is safely out of sight, Trickster stamps his foot, and energy ripples outwards, shaking the space that surrounds him. He smiles, satisfies with the returning sense of calm, and seeks out the triplets. His eyes flicker as he scans the shadows for any unwelcome guests.

“The King is…a bit much,” Indira admits as her sisters nod in agreement.

“But we are not the only ones his eyes follow,” Amala interjects. “Kashmir, also.”

“Though she does not require your saving, Trickster, she did slap the King for good measure,” Nandita giggles.

Trickster’s eyes narrow and his smile grows tight. To seek out the triplets, despite promises to the contrary, is a challenge to his authority. To seek out _Kashmir_ is a far more personal insult. With a muttered incantation, Trickster constructs a barrier around the triplets. They are free to come and go as they please; he would never hinder their movements. The King, however, would find access to this area of Kooza rather difficult without their explicit consent.

Once the structure is completed, Trickster seeks out the Duo. A bit of calm would serve him well.

“If you care for my advice,” Rajiv casually remarks as he twirls Inzhu on his unicycle, “We would all be rather glad to see less of the puppet king.”

“Oh, never mind him,” Inzhu smiles serenely. “Rajiv is simply frustrated at the King’s attempts to court me.”

“It is more than that!”

“You also threatened to, I believe the words were ‘run him over with your unicycle.'”

Rajiv blushes, momentarily chastened. “I did at that,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “I would not fault Inzhu’s lovers, should she choose any for herself, but I would prefer she choose partners that are worthy of her.”

Trickster’s eye twitches. It is no secret he has desired Inzhu from the moment she came into being. He has long refused to act on the attraction out of respect for her partner. It is an impulse that, until this moment, he held fast to. Still, he feels a sort of possessive responsibility for the woman, and he could not stand idly as others court what he has refrained from for so long.

Inzhu descends from the unicycle and takes Trickster’s hand in her own, “He is lonely, Trickster. And we cannot expect the height of civility from a clown, even one that is a King. Do not fault him for that. Perhaps he will calm when he has a lover of his own.”

“It is not the worst suggestion,” Rajiv concedes, wrapping his arms around Inzhu’s waist and peering at Trickster over her head. “We all desire companionship. But who on earth would have him?”

All three share a moment of consideration. Chuckling, Trickster realizes a potential solution to this problem, and sets off into the shadows again

Trickster rarely spends time with the Red Army. As the eldest in Kooza, Trickster had not yet mastered free will upon creating them. They are little more than sentient marionettes despite continuous attempts to push them to become something more. He adores them, as he adores all his creations. But their simplicity can become grating, even dull, and he spent less time with them as others poured from his imagination.

In his absence, the firstborn of the group had begun to explore their own independence. Trickster found himself rather proud they had exceeded his limitations. He would, of course, never admit such to any of them, but the pride was there nonetheless.

“Pamela,” he calls out, seeking out the tallest of the group. “A word?”

She hesitantly separates herself from her siblings as Trickster tempts her into the shadows with an almost predatory smile.

“I have a request for you, love.”

Trickster tenderly grazes his hand across Pamela’s cheek. Their eyes meet. It is no great struggle to convince one of the Red Army to do as he asks. They have always followed his commands in the past.

“Anything,” she whispers, shivering under his gaze.

“The King has become a bit of a bother in this realm. It has come to my attention that he might, perhaps, become a bit calmer if a beautiful woman such as yourself would allow him the pleasure of her company.”

Pamela’s eyes narrow and she jerks away, “Absolutely not.”

Trickster drops his hand in shock. That was certainly unexpected. He quickly recovers, his smile dazzling, and runs his fingers through her hair again.

“Not even as a personal favor to me?”

“Not even for all the treasure in Kooza,” she snaps. Without another word, she departs.

He considers hurrying after her and soothing her ruffled feathers then thinks better of it. The Red Army are kind, absent-minded souls. They rarely contain memories for long. Such forgetfulness was a source of frustration in the past, but at least now it saves his pride.

Regardless of Pamela’s relative memory, he vows to present her an apologetic gift later. His approach was tactless at best. The Koozin deserved more sympathetic treatment from their creator.

“I see your pets have grown a bit of backbone,” calls out a familiar voice from the shadows.

Trickster groans, recognizing Kashmir’s voice. Damn the woman.

“I would never force any of my creations to do what they find distasteful,” he shrugs. He finds himself spun around as Kashmir forces him to face her.

“You would not force, that is true,” she agrees. “But you have never required force for what is expected, no? Can you truly say such consent is freely given?”

“I would never harm my creations,” he manages, his voice strangled. The thought of harming one of his pets is momentarily overwhelming and it is difficult to catch his breath.

“No, you would not,” she concedes, her voice softening. “But you have never considered the implicit threat beneath the power you wield, Trickster. It is a lesson you had best learn, and quickly.”

Kashmir departs, leaving Trickster in the shadows. And for one moment, the man that never questions, never doubts, finds his self-control coming apart at the seams.


	3. Chapter 3

Trickster idly twirls his baton as he peers down from the bataclan. There is precious little to keep him entertained today. Kashmir has pointedly avoided him ever since their last encounter. The King and his clowns are not the most stimulating company. Inzhu and Rajiv, as always, have eyes only for one another, and spend every moment dancing upon their unicycle.

That leaves the Red Army, or his own solitary company, and misery craves companionship.

They are not particularly difficult to find. He follows the echo of jester’s bells through Kooza’s labyrinth of shadows and discovers them, as expected, making complete fools of themselves. He chuckles as Pamela somersaults out of a blanket and is caught by Hari moments before striking the ground. They tumble together and Pamela leaps back into the blanket to try her trick again.

Trickster is relieved to see Pamela has forgotten, or at the least recovered from, their recent unfortunate conversation. Despite his missteps upon forming them, he adores their naïve, wide-eyed enthusiasm, and the thought of dimming that light is a disheartening one. Their laughter reminds Trickster of his first moments in Kooza, baton in hand, brimming with possibility as he built the world around them. That passion was poured into the Army before him. Trickster would be a poor creator not to appreciate them as they are.

He has neglected them long enough. Kashmir’s avoidance offers an opportunity to rectify his mistake. Trickster will have to thank her for that.

“And what is the game today?” Trickster calls out to the group.

The Army startles easily. Three of the group members drop the blanket and Pamela drops to the ground. Trickster strides through the small crowd and helps her back on her feet. He presses a quick kiss to her wrist and winks. She smiles shyly, unsteady on her feet, as Trickster steps back.

“A new trick,” stammers another girl, Jiya, from behind the group. “The King suggested it. Blanket toss!”

“I am sure he did,” Trickster snorts. “He would take any opportunity to watch such pretty dolls fly.”

The Army beams as one. Several of the members blush at Trickster’s endearments. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a sharp movement as the bataclan curtain snaps shut. No doubt a clown or two is now running for cover. He allows them to escape.

“My time is limited but I am curious as to how you have all progressed,” he begins, stepping away from the crowd and taking a seat outside the spotlights. “You have, for now, my undivided attention. Have you anything new to demonstrate?”

They each begin speaking at once, a merry cacophony, and Trickster relaxes. Here, at least, he can discover some respite from his own swirling thoughts. He waves them on and they begin to leap, tumble, clumsily moving through new routines. It is good to laugh again. Trickster had forgotten the sensation. He resolves to not forget again.

As the Army moves through their routines, Trickster is captivated by one of the eldest in the group. Jiya is far more graceful than her siblings. Despite the complexity of her routines, he never sees her commit a single mistake. She is no Kashmir, no one could be, but she is beautiful, and her happiness is infectious. After a particularly complicated maneuver, her green eyes meet his in challenge, and he accepts the unspoken invitation. It would not do to pine for Kashmir forever.

“Pets,” he interrupts. “I regret that I have some private matters to discuss with Jiya. Would you all grant me some of your sibling’s time?”

Several of the Army elbow one another knowingly but make no other comment. Jiya weaves through the crowd and takes Trickster’s outstretched hand as he leads her into the bataclan.

The curtain closes around them. Trickster tilts Jiya’s head up, searching her eyes for a moment. It is easy to lose himself in her gaze, bright as a spotlight and focusing only on him. He can sense the heat of her interest as it caresses his skin.

“You can leave, little one. I would not demand what is not freely given.”

Jiya closes the space between them with a clumsy kiss. Trickster pulls her to the ground with him, keeping her hands still as she frantically pulls at his jacket. They have all the time in the world, after all. There is no reason to rush.

Outside the bataclan, the Red Army continues their maneuvers despite the loss of one member.

“And what has caused such a fluster among you?” calls out a voice from the shadows as Kashmir emerges as if out of thin air.

Speaking over one another, the Red Army describes their newest tricks. Kashmir indulgently allows them to continue as her eyes search through the group. Counting the members before her, she interrupts their reverie.

“Has something happened to one of your siblings?” she asks, a steel edge to her voice.

Several girls giggle in response but none answer the question. Finally, Hari steps forward, stammering under Kashmir’s icy gaze.

“Jiya, yes, but she has not gone far. Trickster wanted only a moment of her time-“

Kashmir puts up her hand to stop him. She stalks towards the bataclan and peeks inside. Her body, though rigid, betrays no response. Silently, she returns to the group, and offers her hand to the terrified Hari.

“I see then. Well. Hari, a moment of _your_ time, then? If you care to share it with me?”

He nods, caught between terror and opportunity, and Kashmir steers him towards the shadows, making sure the Army sees her movements. Trickster would want to know where she ran off to. She certainly would not allow him to miss her performance.

Within the bataclan, Jiya lies half-undressed under Trickster. He would be mad not to want her. Her breathy sighs drive him to the edge of his control. But she is not Kashmir. As much as he wishes to move on from that disastrous attempt at romance, it is not time yet. He groans and begins to disentangle himself from her arms.

“Little one,” he begins. She latches on tighter and Trickster’s voice turns stern. “Jiya. Behave. I regret leading you on as I have, but I am afraid I have made a mistake.”

Jiya pouts, her eyes downcast, as Trickster’s blood runs cold. This adventure was ill-advised. He never intended to disappoint the girl, but now he has.

“I swear to you, any Koozin would be lucky to have you,” he soothes as he coaxes her back on her feet. “There is merely another in my heart. I have been selfish.”

Trickster helps her dress and her sulking diminishes. She likely will not remember the encounter, and neither will her siblings. He is thankful they are quick to distraction. It would be unfortunate if his momentary lapse in judgement brought sadness to any of them. With a quick kiss to her cheek, she is smiling again, and he escorts her back to the group.

Once she is safely with her siblings, Trickster turns to depart, but pauses. Something is not quite right. He swiftly counts the Army before him. They are one member short. He grips his baton and his voice emerges smooth as silk.

“Where has Hari wandered off to, my pets?”

In the shadows, Kashmir draws Hari down to the ground. He is inexperienced, clumsy, but she is happy to encourage him with breathy sighs and soft moans. Suddenly, he draws away from her, pulled back in a flurry of sparks by an unseen force. A furious Trickster stands over them with his baton aimed directly at her momentarily lover. 

“You dare, Kashmir? You dare?”

“What I do is not your concern,” she snaps, stepping between Trickster and Hari. If he hurts the trembling man behind her, she will never forgive herself. “Let him be. This is between us now.”

Trickster grips the baton tighter before swiftly nodding. Kashmir urges Hari back to the Army and turns her wrath directly onto the man before her.

“I told you that you would one day use your power to control me,” she whispers in fury.

“I did no such thing to you, only to him.”

“It is the same!” she shrieks. Trickster flinches at her rage.

“If it is the same.” he smiles, his voice dropping as she feels the command enter her mind. “Then why should I not use such powers on you, as well?”

Trickster flicks his baton and Kashmir moves towards him. She falls into his arms, shaking. He silently congratulates himself. The movement was a gamble, but a worthwhile one.

Then she shoves him away again and her fury chills him to the bone.

“You have no right, Trickster, no right at all. I do not belong to you.”

“Every single Koozin belongs to me, pet, and you are no exception.”

Trickster regrets the words the moment they are spoken. Kashmir flinches as if struck. He hides the baton within his suit and reaches for her. She slaps his hand away.

“I told you I valued my freedom. I admitted I fear your ability to control me. And I was right.”

“Kashmir, please, I did not intend-” he extends his hand out to her again. She recoils from his touch.

“Create someone new to replace me, Trickster, for I will _never_ allow you to touch me again.”

Kashmir departs into the shadows. And for one horrifying moment, Trickster has never felt so alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Trickster is the uncontested master of a world where the impossible is commonplace. So he tells himself, repeatedly, as he spends yet another day lurking in the shadows to avoid a terrifying Kashmir on a warpath.

“If you don’t come out here and apologize to Hari, you’ll find yourself tied onto your own aerial straps!” Kashmir rages as Trickster not-too-gracefully cowers behind the bataclan.

If he is honest with himself, a trait Trickster rarely indulges in, Kashmir does have every right to her anger. He simply has no intention of telling her so. But he cannot hide forever. Kooza is still a small kingdom with only a handful of inhabitants. There is no avoiding this reckoning.

“Perhaps I made an error in judgement,” he admits, placatingly, only to find himself ducking as Kashmir throws one shoe at him, then another. He pauses, smirking. “Would you like these returned?”

“I fly better without the damned things,” she mutters, suddenly, frighteningly, calm.

“If I apologize to Hari, will you return to me?”

“Never. But if you do not apologize to Hari, I shall steal your baton and turn you into a clown.”

Trickster considers her threat. He would not put it past her. He agrees to her demand and watches as she departs. In moments, he apologizes to a flustered Hari, and reverts once again to the bataclan. Around them, the shadows grow darker, and Trickster remains alone.

The Koozin have long become accustomed to Trickster’s mercurial moods. His teasing was sharp and often cut to the quick. He knew when he stepped too far. He would never deign to express regret with words, but small token of affections would appear after a particularly cruel joke, and they cheerfully accepted the gifts.

But other than the clowns, none have borne the brunt of his anger. At least, not yet. And they are ill-equipped to do so.

Trickster keeps to the bataclan’s upper balcony, surveying those below, and they learn to avoid his gaze. After one remarkably loud bout of practice from the Red Army, he banishes them from his sight with a flick of his baton. Jiya’s later attempts to cheer him prove no more successful. Within moments of approaching him, she stumbles back out the curtain, crying from his bitter words. Even the clowns suddenly discover the value of keeping out of sight.

Laughter grows less commonplace. The bataclan is all but deserted. Kooza cannot continue in this fashion. The world taps into its creator’s temperaments, and a storm threatens to approach and sweep them all into the shadows.

He hears footsteps approach long before the curtain opens. Trickster turns to demand privacy and instead eases upon seeing Inzhu. She shimmers in the soft light, the blue of her clothing a stark contrast to the red of the bataclan, and Trickster finds himself calming for the first time in several long days. He sighs and gestures for her to join him.

“I see rumors of your disposition were not exaggerated,” she murmurs, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “How strange, to find the master of chaos instead mastered by it in turn.”

Trickster grips the baton tighter. For a moment, the tension increases. Inzhu hurries to him and wraps him in a close embrace, softly reminding him that he is not alone. He deflates and allows himself to be held.

“Rajiv will worry at your absence,” he says. She shushes him and holds him tighter. It is as if the world itself breathes a sigh of relief.

“Never you mind that, old friend,” Inzhu says, encouraging Trickster to sit beside her. “Now. Tell me what has happened. And we shall see if we can tease out a solution, hmm?”

Slowly at first, Trickster recounts the events. His love for Kashmir and his mistakes. The words tumble out, more rapidly as his anger grows, and Inzhu places a soft hand on his shoulder to steady him. With the story complete, the silence between them lies heavy. Inzhu sighs and shakes her head with bemusement.

“Well you certainly have made a mess of things,” she chuckles.

“I do not need you to remind me of that,” he grumbles, sulking.

“You are a possessive being, Trickster,” she reminds him. “You have always been so. Even in creating me. You conjured me as a companion for Rajiv, then raged when I first focused my attention on him rather than you. It is one of your greatest faults.”

“I am sure the list of my faults is long indeed.”

“Oh, hush,” she smiles, nudging him with her elbow. “You are a child that does not enjoy sharing his toys. It is a lesson you needed to learn quite some time ago.”

Inzhu rests her head on his shoulder and allows him space to gather his thoughts. She has been at Trickster’s side almost from the beginning of Kooza. She loves him, in her way, more than he could ever recognize. Witnessing him in so flustered a state is no welcome sight. 

“Kashmir is-” he pauses, a lump in his throat. “I cannot win her, can I?”

“I think,” Inzhu threads her words carefully. “No, I believe it would be best to create a new companion for yourself. You have sheared the threads of trust between you. They are not easily mended. Perhaps Kashmir will return, but you are lonely, and desire thwarted becomes a dangerous obsession.”

Trickster nods, conceding the point. Inzhu squeezes his hand in reassurance and shifts to depart the bataclan.

“And what if she goes the way of Kashmir?” he whispers brokenly.

“You created me to meet the desires of another,” Inzhu turns back towards him, smiling, from the curtain. “I am sure you can manage the same for your own desires.”

Each of Trickster’s creations is a unique conjuring, a sort of spell spoken once and then never again. There is no rulebook to follow. He imagines, pours his yearnings into the baton, and idea becomes flesh. He had never dwelt on the process before. Now, he hesitates and truly considers the strength in his hands. The baton is a heavy thing, an almost too-weighty responsibility. But it is his responsibility, and he cannot shirk from it. With a deep breath, he spins a new creation.

He dances alone in the bataclan, releasing his desires and anger into the spell. He thinks of love thwarted, of Kashmir, of the darkness he has long failed to suppress within himself. He thinks of gentle elegance followed by a bite of pain. He contemplates binding this creature to him for a moment, then casts the impulse away as if burned. The spell cast, he twirls his baton one last time, and sighs her name.

She emerges from the air in a mass of crimson and purple feathers, her lithe body peeking through the cape, a shadow-twin to that which he has already lost. Her stance is that of a queen accustomed to being obeyed. She opens her eyes and meets his gaze. Trickster’s heart skips a beat as he realizes her eyes are identical to Kashmir’s. Then she smirks, a cruel, controlled movement, and his heart stills. Resigned, hopeful, he bows in acknowledgement.

“Chanderi,” he begins, taking her hand in his and caressing it lightly. “Welcome to Kooza.”


	5. Chapter 5

Chanderi selects the hoops as her focus. Trickster nearly collapses in relief. He could not endure her flying into the air. That realm is reserved for Kashmir alone.

Her first practice, Trickster gracefully steps aside to give her privacy. He is startled when Chanderi grabs his wrist instead and requests he remain. Early practices are never painless. He prefers to allow his subjects space to become themselves without his involvement. But one smoldering glance and he swiftly obeys her demands. He cannot find it within himself to say no to her.

“Surely you are tired? There are other activities we could pursue?” he invites her as she drops a hoop once again. He welcomes the opportunity to take her breath away with a new delight.

“Never,” she dismisses. “Or do your old bones require a rest?”

Trickster smirks at the challenge and buries his disappointment under a brilliant smile. They begin again. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Trickster glances at the King peeking out from the bataclan. He gestures with his baton and the curtains shut in his face.

“It would have been far more entertaining to terrify the man,” Chanderi remarks.

“And why is that?”

“Fear is more delicious than laughter, no? Have you ever thought of having a bit of fun at the old fool’s expense?”

“The thought has crossed my mind, but I prefer not to interfere.”

“Why ever not? Meddling is half the pleasure of power, no?”

Trickster shrugs, conceding the point, and they continue. But beneath the practiced movements and carefully constructed facade, his mind is uneasy.

There is a part of Trickster that he keeps buried underneath the impulsive artifice, a darkness he rarely acknowledges and chooses to pretend does not exist at all. Flashes of it bubble to the surface at random if not inopportune times. His anger at the Koozin is one such incident, as is lashing out at Kashmir’s lover. But there are other moments, as well, moments when Trickster can hear the rattling of a skeleton’s bones beneath the baton’s unspoken threats.

It is this darkness that he finds manifested in Chanderi. She moves with a natural confidence that is unmatched among the Koozin. She shimmers with darkness, an undercurrent of danger, that Trickster finds himself drawn to like moth to a flame. He admires his handiwork and finds her breathtaking. He can see himself ruling Kooza with Chanderi by his side. She would certainly encourage him to embrace the more malicious aspects of his personality.

That fantasy is not as enticing as it once was. He brushes his misgivings aside nonetheless.

“Exactly what are you suggesting, my dear?”

“I am suggesting,” she begins, flawlessly catching the last hoop. “That power is only as valuable as how one uses it. And I would be most eager to see how you use yours.”

The King does not reemerge for several days. Chanderi’s frequent goading turns irksome. He is relieved when an opportunity presents itself. Rather than peek from behind the batalcan’s curtain, the King instead peeks out from an entrance to the ground beneath them. He is impossible to miss. With a perfect flourish, Trickster twirls, and aims his baton at the King.

And the King shrieks in terror.

Trickster chuckles as the King hurries out the ground below and flees into the shadows. Half a dozen rats follow his escape. Another dozen of the beasts materialize and escape every which direction into the shadows and bataclan. Chanderi claps her hands in delight and pulls Trickster in for a kiss. Pushing aside his momentary discomfort, he returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm.

In a few moments, Chanderi and Trickster fall into a tangled heap on the ground. She shivers underneath him as he traces the baton across her skin, slowly moving downwards. He glimpses fear in her eyes mixed with desire and nearly pulls away from her entirely. To be the recipient of such a frightened gaze is an unsettling feeling. The moment stretches between them. Chanderi’s soft moan is the only encouragement he requires.

Trickster hesitantly follows her lead. He is unaccustomed to partners that crave fear and power. It is an unfamiliar dance; still, he is delighted to experience something new.

Time passes, a dizzy, heady feeling that Trickster cannot shake. He awakens from the haze as a pointed cough arises from the shadows next to them. Kashmir stands observing them, her expression impossible to read. Trickster swiftly conjures their clothing back and rather ungracefully steps away from his partner to face her.

“We are a bit busy, love, could you not give us some privacy?” Chanderi snaps.

“Could I? Yes. But I will not,” Kashmir deadpans. “That was quite a stunt, Trickster. Such a shame that Inzhu was injured-”

“Injured? How?” he interrupts. 

“Oh, never you mind. Why concern yourself over loved ones if it means impressing such a beautiful creature?”

“Loved ones?” Chanderi steps forward, eyes dark. “What other _loved ones_ are there? Surely I stand above whatever paltry competition-”

“Do not complete that sentence,” Trickster warns with an edge to his voice “Inzhu is a trusted friend. You will not disrespect her in any way.”

She rolls her eyes but keeps quiet. Kashmir smirks at the exchange. Trickster, watching them both, momentarily considers banishing them all for a touch of peace and quiet.

Except Inzhu. She is, as always, blameless of whatever mischief occurs around her.

“Chanderi, I would be a poor creator if I were to ignore one of the Koozin if they require my aid. I am sure this errand will only take a moment. Would you care to accompany me?”

Trickster extends his arm to Chanderi. She raises her head and ignores it entirely. Instead, she motions for Trickster to lead the way. As they disappear into the shadows, Kashmir tilts her head, lost in thought, then hurries after them. The upcoming debacle would be far too amusing to stay away.

Locating Inzhu is a simple task. The normally serene woman is shaken and curled in Rajiv’s lap. As he approaches, Trickster catches a red bite mark on her wrist. His smile grows tight as he bites back the urge to curse in response.

Rajiv’s eyes lock with Trickster’s. He stiffens at the reflected anger as Rajiv begins to rise. If the man attacked him, he would make no move to stop it. But Inzhu refuses to budge and Rajiv cannot move without leaving her. They are at an impasse.

“Rajiv, I am sure he did not intend to cause me harm,” she soothes him. “It was only a trick that spun out of control.”

Trickster kneels beside her and traces the mark with his fingers. He is thankful it is merely a shallow mark.

“Such drama over the smallest of injuries,” Chanderi whispers under her breath, remaining separate from the group. Only Trickster is capable of hearing such a soft voice. He ignores her entirely.

With a whispered incarnation, the mark vanishes, as does the pain. A twirl of his baton summons a red flower. Trickster carefully sets the flower behind Inzhu’s ear, placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

“I would never harm you,” he whispers. She grins despite the tears.

“I know, Trickster. I know. I am sorry to have caused you to fret.”

“Now that the matter is settled,” Chanderi cuts in, placing a hand on Trickster’s shoulder. “Might we return to more important matters?”

His eyes flash in an anger he refuses to express. He stands, his gaze sweeping over Chanderi in contempt, but his voice remains as courteous as always, “I have _other_ matters to attend to. I am sure Kashmir would be happy to help you find your way to more familiar surroundings.”

Chanderi huffs and storms off into the shadows. Kashmir, bemused over the situation, wanders in the opposite direction. Trickster suppresses a moan before returning his attention to more important matters.

After another gentle movement, Inzhu falls asleep in Rajiv’s arms, and he nods in thanks. Trickster returns to the shadows. And his mind wanders.

As much as Trickster is drawn to Chanderi, he thinks of the smiles of the Red Army as he indulged them with his affection. He recalls Inzhu’s hand in his and his genuine delight as Rajiv sweeps her off her feet once again. He thinks of the triplets, three identical jewels, twisting as they reach for something greater. Even the clowns, he realizes bemusedly, he pushed to be more.

And there is Kashmir, _always_ Kashmir, at the forefront of his mind. Kashmir’s brilliant eyes alight with mischief, a smirk on her face, and her wrists captured in the straps as she dances ever higher. 

Either Trickster can be a mischievous vortex of chaos that pushes others to fly, or he can master the chaos to specific parameters. He cannot do both. He does not yet have the ability to resist the siren’s song of control and power so easily in his grasp.

This is not what he desires. This is not who he wishes to be. He cannot continue down this path for a moment longer.


	6. Chapter 6

Trickster avoids Chanderi and he focuses on repairing the damage caused.

Catching the rats is the most arduous task. He could handwave them out of existence, but locating them proves far more challenging. When the last few rats vanish, he breathes a sigh of relief. The sigh becomes a grimace as he looks down at his hands and sees the bite marks marr his skin.

“Not such a handsome image now, Trickster?” Kashmir snaps from above.

“Do you still carry such anger towards me for a single mistake?”

“Anger, no,” she sighs, her voice weary. “Frustration that you cannot seem to learn to treat us as more than your playthings? Yes.”

He bows, conceding the point, and moves towards the shadows.

“You could heal those,” she points to the marks on his wrists. He shakes his head, refusing to look at her.

“I require a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I can be, so that I no longer become so again.”

Kashmir watches from above as Trickster locates the King. He flinches at the approach and she almost sympathises despite her distaste for both men. Trickster conjures a gold crown out of the shadows, a gaudy, showy thing that is certainly not his usual taste. And he offers it to the King.

“Take it as an apology,” he offers the crown to the King. “No tricks, no caveats. Your poor behavior does not excuse my own.”

The King places the crown on his head and runs to show the other clowns. Trickster indulgently shakes his head and disappears out of sight. Kashmir remains with her thoughts.

Kashmir does not see Trickster’s continued amends, but she hears of them. The Red Army chatters continuously over their new blanket. Inzhu preens over her new dance shoes as Rajiv dances at her side. The triplets endlessly chat about their new gold clothing.

Every inhabitant of Kooza, it seems, has received a token of some kind. All but Chanderi and Kashmir, at least.

Trickster visits Chanderi next. She tosses another hoop towards him. He catches it, flawlessly, then gestures for her to stop.

“I cannot do this,” he begins, moving towards her, placing the hoop in her hands. “I am not the best partner for you.”

She searches his eyes for a moment, then nods. “No. I thought, perhaps, you were something else, but…”

“I could be,” Trickster agrees. He drops her hands. “I have proven what I can be. And I never wish to cause such harm again.”

“Will you create another to match me, then?”

He considers her request. It is the least he can do for her. “Yes. But not today.”

“Today you must find the one that _is_ the best partner for you,” she smirks knowingly and waves him away. “Off with you then, before I change my mind.”

He bows and departs, searching through the shadows. Trickster could use his baton to locate Kashmir. But then, the chase is half the fun.

Kashmir flies in her aerial straps, a distracted, half-hearted attempt. She freezes as Trickster approaches and untangles herself from the straps. Sighing, she lies stretched out on her back, glaring at the shadowed sky above them.

“Have a care what you wish to say, Trickster,” she warns him.

“I will leave, if you prefer,” he murmurs.

“Would you?” she asks, refusing to face him. “ _Could_ you?”

“Yes,” the word curdles on the tongue. The pain of losing her is a searing ache, but the thought of her disappointment burns all the brighter.

Trickster does not so much see Kashmir’s frustration as feel the dismissal crawling on his skin. It grates, an unaccustomed heaviness that causes his hands to clench at his sides. Kashmir softens. She silently indicates the ground beside her. He takes a seat.

“You made Chanderi to suit you in all aspects. I do not see how my attention would continue to hold an appeal for you.”

“What one desires and what one needs often differ.”

“And which of the two am I?”

“I created that which I required long before I knew what I would one day desire.”

“A clever trick, even for a master Trickster.”

“It would appear my brilliance is altogether accidental, yes,” he smiles, acknowledging the irony.

“And what of Chanderi?” She bites her tongue to keep the acid from her voice. The attempt is unsuccessful, and he flinches. 

“I will not divulge intimate details of my lovers, Kashmir,” he warns. “Such matters should, and will, remain private. But yes. Our affair is, for now, at an end.”

“You have no reason to assume I would return to you.”

“My choice to leave her was made rather independently of you.”

“You cannot expect me to believe that,” she scoffs.

“I deserve your mistrust. I do not have your confidence. I believe I never did.”

A moment passes between them. Trickster removes the baton from his pocket and idly twirls it.

“With this, I am able to change reality on a whim,” he reminds her. “There are few limits. I can conjure, and alter, what I please, including you. Including _us_. But it would mean becoming something I no longer wish to be.”

Trickster feels as if he balances on the edge of an abyss. This moment is what changes all the moments that come after. With a deep breath, he holds the baton out to Kashmir and nods his permission. It is a relief when she takes the baton in her delicate hands.

“What am I to do with this?” she asks, stunned at the gift.

“What you wish.”

“And if what I _wish_ is to make you vanish from existence and take Kooza from you?”

He considers the threat and realizes it is almost freeing. “Even then.”

She searches his eyes with all the subtlety of a spotlight. He has never felt so exposed as within her scrutinizing gaze. Whatever she seeks, she finds it, and she smiles.

“Perhaps we should choose what to do with this together,” she suggests. Kashmir moves closer to him and lays her head in his lap. “We have all the time in the world.”

_We._ The word is intoxicating. He can almost taste the change in the air, something unfamiliar and heady and infinitely precious. Trickster lightly threads his fingers through Kashmir’s hair and relaxes as she purrs. He does not press further. Kashmir sighs in relief, pulling Trickster down to briefly kiss his cheek. He moves at the last moment and their lips meet. She does not pull away. The kiss deepens, a giddy, breathless moment.

“I cannot belong to you,” she reminds him, pulling away to catch her breath. “I can only love you in my fashion. And my love is changeable at best. It will seldom be limited to you.”

“To share you is a challenge,” he admits with a wince. “I treasure you. I am greedy to keep my treasures to myself. But if such are the requirements of caring for you, my pet, then I will not ask for more. ”

“Are you sure about that, Trickster?” she knowingly smirks. “There is nothing more you desire from me?”

“Well,” Trickster’s voice changes shape, a shiver of suggestion running through it, as he trails a hand down her shoulder. “There are _some_ activities I would prefer, if I am to be honest...”

He expects to be slapped. To his surprise, Kashmir laughs. His heart skips a beat as the bright sound banishes the shadows between them. She wraps her arms around his neck and climbs into his lap.

“Oh? And what might such activities entail?”

“Is tying me to the straps still an option?”

“We both know you would prefer to tie _me_ to the straps. But let us see what new tricks we can create together.”

Trickster presses his head to hers, breathing in her scent. Whatever else he might have of her, this moment is already enough. Anything more is a gift he does not deserve.

He knows she will take what she wishes and leave him wanting, that their future is an endless dance that neither can quite win. The thought of such chaos is intoxicating. And yet. He has never desired a creature more than the one in his arms.

The shadows close around them. Trickster smiles, anticipating the oncoming chaos. 

What is love without uncertainty, after all?


	7. Chapter 7

Trickster tries to remind himself that he loves each and every one of his creations. It is a difficult thing to remember at this moment, with each of them squabbling with the rest. Only Inzhu stands apart, as always serenely outside the chaos, calmly petting a small brown dog in her lap.

He attempts to shout over the noise for their attention. It does not work. Frustrated, he points his baton above them and brief fireworks silence the group. He sighs in relief.

“We can _all_ agree that was not a success,” he deadpans.

“Chanderi dropped her hoops,” Kashmir snarks.

“And you gell out of your straps!” Chanderi counters.

“Even the clowns were boring,” notes Jiya. She quickly disappears back into the Red Army to avoid the King’s glare.

“But at least our realm has gained a new member,” Inzhu happily points out. The small dog licks Inzhu’s hand and she giggles in response. Even Trickster smiles and shakes his head at the two.

“Yes. Well. We now have a dog, that is true,” Trickster concedes. “But otherwise, this was not a polished performance.”

“That Innocent quite literally fell asleep,” grumbles Kashmir.

“We are a small world,” Trickster soothes. “We are still learning ourselves. There will be other Innocents. We will simply have to try harder to keep their attention. No?"

“You do still owe me a partner,” Chanderi points out.

“Better to create twins, Trickster,” Kashmir jokes. “One lover is likely not enough for her.”

“On the subject of lovers, perhaps we should create an entire aerial troupe to keep you company! You certainly would not want for attention then,” Chanderi snarks.

They glare at one another for a moment before bursting into giggles. Trickster is not sure whether he is more alarmed by their bickering or their ability to join together on a whim.

“Could we not have a less hectic performer?” Inzhu requests. “Something soothing, soft. We could all use a respite in the whirlwind of gold and crimson.”

Trickster nods. Her suggestion has merit.

“A singer,” the group freezes upon hearing the King’s voice. He rarely speaks at such communal events. “Give us a voice to encourage us to perform. Something to remind us of what binds us together.”

“And what binds us together?” Nandita’s voice calls out from behind the Red Army. “What could we all hold in common?”

“Affection,” Trickster whispers, unaccustomed emotion in his voice. “We are bound by affection, by caring. We are…”

“‘A family,” Kashmir finishes with soft smile.

Trickster nods. He does not trust himself to discuss such an emotional topic further. If this line of discussion continues, even his near-infinite self-control might snap. For a moment, the silence is as thick as the shadows that surrounded the bataclan.

“Now,” Trickster resumes his aloof tone. “A few weeks ago I would take this baton and create something new, but on Kashmir’s suggestion, let us discuss what is to come together. Who would like to begin?”

Once again, they burst into a cacophony of debate. Trickster chuckles and his eyes glimmer as he watches their excitement grow. His beautiful, dazzling, noisy creations. How he adores them, almost as much as he sometimes wishes to banish them from existence. There is much to discuss, much to accomplish. Too much, almost.

But after the first Innocent’s departure, the batlacan’s colors had become even more vibrant. The world itself had filled with music whose origin still escaped even Trickster’s careful searching for its source. If only one Innocent could have such an impact, what could another dozen?

“That is quite enough!” Kashmir calls out, shushing the group. “One at a time, please and thank you!”

At her insistence, they lower their voices and begin discussing in earnest. Kashmir gently pushes the conversation this way and that. Trickster’s eyes fall on Kashmir and soften. He will never tire of watching her perform, create, _become_. He gestures towards her in respect and gratitude, but she tosses her hair and ignores him entirely. He had expected nothing less.

Trickster reaches out his senses to feel the world around them. Where there was once discordance, energies shift and manifest, coming together in altogether unexpected ways. That is certainly a start. There is magic in his veins and mischief in his eyes. Trickster knows, without a moment’s hesitation, their long work had only begun. And he was unafraid to face the changes that might come.

“So long,” Trickster whispers to himself as Kashmir finally gives him a momentary sideways glance. “So long as we face those changes together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of this journey, but another journey is already being written. As always, eternal thanks to my beta Kat!


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